Beaten
by xsilicax
Summary: PostEp for Heart. What happens after the gunshot, alternate POVs. Parts three and four, grieving together. Angst is pretty much a given.
1. Dean

**Title:** Beaten

**Author:** XsilicaX.

**Category:** Post-Ep; Angst; HC.

**Characters: **Dean; Sam; Madison briefly.

**Words:** 1938

**Spoilers:** Heart

**Disclaimer:** SO not mine!

* * *

**Beaten**

There was a strange silence in the apartment, after. It was as though the rooms stilled in grief. Dean could hear the clock in the hall ticking the seconds; his eyes were drawn to the hand clicking round the face. He had to blink to see the numbers.

He swallowed.

Sounds seemed to echo louder in here. He could hear traffic noises muffled outside, but they were detached somehow. The faucet dripping in the kitchen, the hum of the air-con, they seemed more real. A sudden ping as the light overhead cooled had Dean's heart pounding and his hand reaching for his gun before it closed, empty.

Sam had the gun.

Dean's fists tightened at his sides. The roar of his uneven breaths filled his ears, whistling through clenched teeth. Try as he might he could not suppress the quiver that shook it slightly. He couldn't hear anything from the living room.

He'd flinched at the shot a few minutes ago, seconds, maybe hours. Dean wasn't sure how long had passed. It was some time; not enough and far too long, it just was. He scowled hard at the closed door. After the shot there had been an awful flump – Madison hitting the ground – he didn't want to think too hard about it. She'd been a nice girl.

But after that, other than a few shuffles, a couple of gasping breaths, he'd heard nothing. Dean wanted to push open that door and check on Sam, but his feet felt too heavy to move. Sam had needed to finish this himself. His eyes had begged for that. Dean entering now was the last thing Sam wanted him to do; he had been told to wait here. And he would, even though a part of him needed to be there with Sam. Another dreaded it. If Sam'd wanted him there he would have left the door open. He felt a little relieved it was shut, and he hated that.

Of course that left him with nothing to do but watch the clock hands and think.

"Bloody scissors, never playing that hand again," he muttered to himself, rubbing subconsciously at it. He wished with every fibre that he'd been the one to stay with the girl – and he wasn't wishing for it in the same way that he had been only a couple of days ago. Sam was supposed to be _safe_ here. The company of a beautiful girl was just an extra bonus. He'd _liked_ her, damnit.

That boy was cursed. Dean's chin sunk down to touch his chest. Unfortunately that was probably true. His jaw firmed and head lifted; this wasn't going to happen on his watch.

The clock ticked. He scuffed his foot against the carpet. He didn't wait well.

He could hear a whispering from inside the lounge. It wasn't loud enough that he could make out the words, even holding his breath and leaning towards the door. It was just a murmur, soft and filled with hurt. Dean took one step forwards then stopped, shutting his eyes, and drawing in a deep breath. He was _waiting_.

That damned ticking clock was getting on his last nerve and chewing away.

His eyes opened. He gave one more hard stare at the door - through the door - trying to imagine what was going on inside, before turning and dragging himself off. He couldn't listen outside any longer without going in; he also couldn't pull himself away. Dean found himself stopping and turning every few seconds to look back at that door each time he thought he heard a noise, turning away disappointed. He tried not to look at the pictures on the wall. The smiling faces irritated the hell out of him, the ones with Madison in stared accusingly at him.

He reached the doorway to Madison's bedroom and took one step in, pausing as his foot crossed the threshold. It felt wrong somehow to go in. He leant on the doorframe, unable to go any further. His head turned back towards the lounge. He could just about make out the door, and it was still firmly shut. He was beginning to hate the colour.

He couldn't hear anything at all now; he was too far away. It tore at him a little, but Sam had wanted to deal with this alone, even though his hands had shaken as they took the gun from his. Dean was going to honour that need without fuss. He turned back to the room in front of him. His eyes were blurred; he was _not _crying. It was the room; it was dusty.

The bedroom was a mess. The covers were thrown about the bed, half on the floor. The walls had deep gouges etched into them; splinters from the door embedded in the carpet. A mixture of clothes were scattered on the floor, and it smelled.

Dean could smell sex, and sweat, and tears, and underneath all that a hint of perfume. He wiped his hand over his face. The damp was sweat, honest; it was hot in California. From the looks of things Sam had _enjoyed_ himself. Dean was pretty sure this was his first time since Jessica. He sagged against the doorframe. There was pain here. A muscle moved in his throat as he walked in, moving over to open the window when a wave of nausea washed over him. He needed some air. He leant against the sill briefly before moving off.

Dean sat on the floor, brushing aside the splinters. His arms rested across his knees, feeling simultaneously too heavy, and too light. He threw back his head to lean against the mattress. He was so tired of this, why couldn't something just go right for a change?

He could still hear that clock. How the hell did Madison sleep through it? He gave a sour bark of laughter; her time ran out. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, squeezing shut and opening his eyes again.

It wasn't a typical girl's room. Dean couldn't see any flowers or candles. There were a few pictures, a fireplace, but mostly the room just was. Functional, friendly, warm; he gave a sudden shiver. Dead people's houses were cold; it was the living that warmed them. He couldn't be sure if it was this room that was really cold, or if he was. He hoped that Madison wasn't going to become a spirit. He didn't think he could handle seeing what that would do to Sam.

He stared at the door again, willing it to open. When he shut his eyes, it wasn't Sam with the gun he pictured; it was he. And it wasn't Madison begging to die.

Restless, he stood up and began gathering together the scattered clothes. He chucked them on top of the bed sheets, tugging the edges out from underneath the mattress, and bundling the pile together. Someone was bound to hear that shot and come to investigate, soon. He had to try and erase all evidence of their presence here. He didn't need Sam wanted for murder as well as him.

Dean's hands stilled as he saw blood on the sheets. Sam hadn't looked hurt, he hadn't said anything about any injury, but Madison had been in bed with him when she'd turned. He'd got that much sense out of Sam. Grabbing his bundle, he hurried back down the hall, which suddenly seemed twice as long as it had before.

He paused outside the living room door, breathing heavily. It was still shut. Dean rested his palm flat against the varnish. It was the closest he dared get for now. He could hear Sam's irregular breaths echoing in the room, and he gritted his jaw.

His fist clenched where he leant against the door. If he'd just thought to phone Bobby earlier and _ask_ if this killing-the-werewolf-sire-thing would work, Sam wouldn't have gotten in nearly as deep.

He pushed lightly against the door with his fist. He was half-hoping it would open, half-praying it wouldn't, and mostly wanting to punch his hand through it. It didn't open. He played with his top lip, holding it between his teeth, before sighing – quietly so Sam didn't hear him. He pulled away, heading towards the kitchen.

This room was probably the tidiest in the house; none of them had felt very hungry last night, waiting and hoping for the unthinkable to not happen. There was a sink full of dirty coffee mugs, but hardly any dishes. He stuffed his burden in the washer, chucking in some powder and softener. It had to look like Madison'd done it just before…he slammed the dryer shut, stabbing the on button with probably more force than was necessary.

The rumble of the machine sounded far too loud in the apartment. It still didn't drown out the hitch in Sam's breathing, nor the occasional rustle as something scraped across the floor.

He couldn't stand to hear it.

Dean strode over to the sink, rinsing the mugs out, washing them by hand even though the dishwasher was two steps away. He needed to keep his hands busy or he might be tempted to smash something. Lipstick on the rim of one caused him to pause, before he savagely scrubbed it away with a dishcloth. The water was cold; it was taking too long to warm up.

He left them to one side, draining, sparkling clean and white in the sunshine outside, which didn't have the sense to stay in. He rested his hands against the counter, bowing his head.

His fists tightened hard on the cloth, wringing it out until it was only damp. Dean turned his head towards the lounge but it was still barred to him. He wiped down the top, the window latch, the faucets, the kettle, the button on the washer, anything he could think of that Sam or he might have touched. The cops would look at this as a murder scene, and he didn't want either his or Sam's names suspected.

He looked through the cupboards before finding a duster and some spray under the sink. Sam would have known which one to go for straight away, but Dean hadn't spent as much time in Madison's life or her apartment. He regretted that. He started wiping down all the surfaces and door handles in the hall, the bathroom and finally back in the bedroom. Even the mirror got polished until he could see his face, grim, in it. He scowled; his eyes were still a little red.

That damned door was still shut, so Dean found the linen closet and remade the bed. He smoothed the quilt out thoroughly over the top, making sure there were no lumps in it. It made the room smell fresh, and clean, and new. Madison's scent faded under the onslaught. He fluffed the pillows violently.

Moving back to the kitchen he stared at the machine churning the washing. He straightened the chairs underneath the table, sitting down briefly before rising. He rinsed the cloth through and wrung it out. He shook out the duster before putting it and the spray away. He opened the window; it was too dusty. He closed it again, too cold. He opened it, unable to breathe.

There was nothing else left to do apart from vacuuming, and he didn't think his nerves could stand the noise. He looked at his watch. It had been twenty-two minutes since Sam had told him to wait.

The door was still shut. He could hear that clock ticking.

"Screw this." He'd waited long enough.

He opened the door.


	2. Sam

Sam couldn't tell for sure through the tears streaming down his face, but he thought Dean might have been shedding one of his own. He stared at his brother, drawing strength from him – delaying – before he turned away, staring into the room at Madison.

She was watching his face, now, her eyes never leaving his. She didn't look scared; she looked…resigned. And sad. There were tears in her eyes too, but also a resolution that Sam understood too well. She'd made her decision; it was he who was struggling with this thing.

He took a deep breath, letting it trickle out through his nose. He was shaking. His hands were clenched at his sides. He could feel the gun, all hard edges, jabbing into him. The metal was cold, pulling the warmth from his fingers.

"Sam," Madison was mouthing to him. "Please."

He couldn't hear her speak, didn't even know if it had been out loud. His heart was racing; the thump filling his ears and mind. He couldn't draw his eyes away from her lips.

He could feel Dean staring at him. He could feel the wetness on his face. A muscle in his cheek twitched, and he stepped inside the room.

He closed the door behind him, leaning on it for a moment, head resting against the wood. He squeezed his eyes shut.

He could feel the weight of Madison's eyes upon his back, but when he pushed away from the door and turned they were staring at the gun in his hand. He followed her gaze, staring at it, willing his hands not to shake. He swallowed and looked away. The room was no different than it had been earlier today, but it felt colder, darker. His eyes were drawn back to the only life in here.

He breathed out shakily, clearing his throat of tears. He had to say something. He couldn't just…shoot. But he couldn't think of anything to say that would make this go away, make it different. They both knew what had to happen. Sam looked at Madison through damp eyes, shaking his head slightly, trying to sear the image of her into his memory. He'd never seen her look prettier, nor more terrifying.

"Sam." Her voice was hushed, wavering a little; it had the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He couldn't do this, why the hell had he told Dean he could? He took a step backwards. "C'mere." She reached for him and he couldn't deny her this, last, comfort.

He buried his head in her shoulder, tears dampening the rough dryness of her shirt where he pressed against it. His arms were crossed tightly around her; she wasn't crying. He was shaking, but she just held him. She was stroking his hair, whispering, trying to comfort him. He tried to choke out words, but nothing would make it past the block in his throat. He held her close, feeling her heart beat against his chest. He was not ready to let her go.

He had to pull away in the end, scrubbing at his face with his free hand. Madison held him back one final time, clasping his head with both hands, fingers entangled in his hair, pulling him nearer so that she could kiss his tears away. Her lips felt warm and alive on his eyelids. He could feel his mouth drying. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut, feeling blindly for her face, stroking it one last time. It was damp.

Madison pushed him away, turning her head away briefly before looking back at him, eyes dry. He could see trust in her eyes and acceptance and determination, but a muscle in her throat was swallowing, and her cheeks were flushed. His tears had dried up. It was time.

They didn't say anything, just stared at each other, time pausing for them both and then he knew: it had to happen now. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should have saved you."

"You are, Sam." Madison's eyes were damp now, her lip quivering slightly. But she managed to smile at him. "Thank you."

He could feel his finger tensing on the trigger as he flicked the safety off. The gun seemed heavy in his hands. He was used to the weight of his own, but this was Dean's gun. This was the one that would be used on…him...if. It was fat and ugly and it had saved his life more times than he could count, but it had never felt as deadly as it did now.

Sweat beaded his forehead as he held the gun in both hands, aiming at Madison's heart. He couldn't look her in the eyes now, though he could still feel hers on him. This would be the sixth time he'd pulled the trigger on someone he'd loved; the first time it wasn't Dean.

He was biting into his lower lip to keep his hands steady. He wanted to wipe the sweat away - his cuts on his face were stinging - but he couldn't afford to lose his concentration. Madison's breath was quickening. He whispered a prayer to himself, praying for a clean shoot, for understanding, for courage. He could hardly see, and he didn't want to miss. He could only bring himself to do this once.

He held his breath, willing his hands to still. He blinked his eyes closed and forced them open, staring at a spot on her shirt. She was jerking with suppressed sobs; he could hear the catch in her breath.

He pulled the trigger.

The shot was hideously loud in the room. He flinched, even as his hands stilled against the recoil. He could feel the gun, warm in his fingers now; he couldn't get them to lower it. His head was ringing with the sound. Everything seemed to still as Madison was thrown backwards by the shot, half-falling against the sofa before sliding down to the floor, resting against it. She left a smear of blood on the cushion.

He blinked, but the image was as fresh behind his eyes as in front of them. His eyes were drawn from that to the spot on Madison's chest, which was growing darker and wider.

His knees wavered beneath him, and he fell forwards on them, kneeling in front of her, gun still clasped in his hands. A slow stain spread out from the wound. He'd got the heart first time, instant kill. She didn't look like it had hurt. There was no blood on her face; it was composed, almost as if she was sleeping. Her cheeks were still moist from tears. Sam wanted to touch her to make sure it was real.

He was trembling as he reached towards her, his vision blurring in and out through tears. His hand hovered over her face. She was still watching him, turned in his direction, head resting on one shoulder. Her hair was in her eyes; he wanted to brush it aside.

He shut his eyes, not yet ready to close hers.

Dimly he realised that he was still carrying the gun, and he flicked the safety on before throwing it onto the sofa – somewhere- he didn't really care where it ended up as long as it wasn't anywhere near him. It gave a loud clatter as it landed, skidding across the floor to rest against something. His breath shook. Distantly he could hear a murmur and footsteps. He could hear Dean hovering at the door, breathing.

His head lowered as he took in a deep breath, releasing it slowly through his nose. He was leaning on one hand. It was shaking like the rest of him, but it was the only thing holding him upright. There was a sharp tang of blood in the air, he could feel it brushing against his teeth as he breathed through his mouth, but the smell was making him feel ill. Part of him wanted Dean to throw open that door and make everything go away. But he couldn't.

He felt cold all of a sudden, and wrapped his arms around himself. His knees were aching, so he scooted along the floor to sit with his back resting against the cushion, alongside Maddy. Her hair lay within reach of his fingers, which twitched with the urge to brush it aside, but he couldn't bring himself to touch her.

He leaned his head back staring up at the ceiling, trying to choke back his tears. Every time he closed his eyes he heard that shot, saw the body falling back. He could still feel the imprint of the gun cutting into his hand. His eyelashes were wet, unable to stop the tears from falling.

In his head it wasn't just Madison lying here beside him. He saw Dean falling down onto the floor, lying there as he pumped more shots at him. He saw Dean falling backwards into the water somewhere, clutching at his shoulder. He opened his eyes, breathing in gasps. How many more times was he going to shoot Dean? He scowled fiercely up, trying to fight the tears back.

He stayed there for some time, watching the shadows on the ceiling, feeling the cold of the floor seep through his jeans. Gradually he stopped shaking. His breath was easing out, though it still quivered irregularly. His hand was inching sideways, crossing the floor slowly towards Maddy.

"I should have saved you. You didn't deserve this. You didn't ask for this." His voice was barely more than a whisper. It sounded choked, though his mouth felt as if it had no moisture in it. His head ached.

She didn't respond.

His hand had scooted over now and was touching her hair, wrapping it around one of his fingers. His other arm was thrown over his eyes nuzzling his tears away. It was done now. It had been done as soon as he had woken up to Madison changed, diving out the window. And he had known it then, he just hadn't been willing to admit it to himself, to Dean.

He'd let her in; he'd shown her his world and it had killed her. He had killed her.

He was stroking her hair now, brushing it away from her eyes, which were still open and staring at him. There was no life in them. She was gone.

His fingers slipped, falling against her face. Her skin still felt warm, and soft, but there was no warm breath puffing against his hand. Her lips were parted slightly, beads of blood drying on them where she had bitten into them. He could feel bites of his own cracking open every time he screwed up his face.

He had moved around, sitting with one leg curled up under him, his palm flat against the floor for balance. His hands were cold. He reached out with his free hand, and grabbed hers. It lay limp in his, her fingers chilled too. He could smell the faint scent of perfume on her clothes, the shampoo in her hair. He'd fallen asleep with it in his nose last night. He wanted to hold her again, smell her again, but he didn't have the right now.

Whatever anyone said, however much Dean protested, he would always see himself as a killer. He felt dirty. He felt evil; he'd taken this beautiful life away, no matter that she'd begged him to do it. There was blood on his hands.

His teeth slipped into the cuts on his lip as he glanced down at his hand. Blood from the cushion had stained her hair, and now coated his fingers. His jacket sleeve was touching the edge of the puddle that had formed beneath her.

There was blood on her cheek where his fingers had caressed it. He breathed in sharply, fighting back the tears. It was _done_. There was no _point _crying over it now. It would wash off.

He knew it wouldn't; blood stained.

He clenched his hand shut, feeling the blood squeeze between his fingers; tacky. It felt right, and so…so wrong.

Dean would have taken the gun; he wanted to shield him from this. But Sam knew that it would drive a wedge between them. If Dean had shot Madison, a part of Sam would never have been able to forgive him for taking her away. _Dean_ would never forgive himself.

One day this would be Dean sitting here; Sam beside him. He wouldn't forgive himself then either.

Sam heaved out a great sigh. There had to be a way out. He didn't want Dean to be the one sitting in a room, staring as his body sagged to the ground, air exhaled one last time from the lungs. He didn't think Dean would have thrown the gun away.

He didn't even know where it had gone. He must remember to get it back; Dean would want it. Guns were expensive.

Sam finally looked up; Madison was still watching him, but he couldn't feel her gaze. There was nothing there any longer. "Pass over safely, Maddy." He placed his fingers over her eyes, closing them, cringing as he left smears of blood on her eyelids. "Follow the light, don't look back."

He slumped back against the sofa, clutching his knees to his chest resting his elbows on them, his head in his arms.

He was so tired. It didn't feel like he had slept in days. He knew he should get up and open the door; knew he should let Dean in – he could hear him outside-; knew that they would have to clear out of here before the cops were called for the shot. He couldn't bring himself to move.

He was cold. He was alone. It was just him in here, his breathing, nothing else. He wanted the TV on to cover the silence, but it was too much effort to lift his head and look for the remote. He just sat there, watching as the pool of blood inched its way towards him.

He raised his head as the door opened.


	3. Behind Closed Doors

"Screw this." He'd waited long enough.

Dean took a deep breath before grasping the doorknob. He squeezed it tightly, breathed in, and turned it. He slowly pushed at the door, poking his head round the corner once it was open far enough.

Sam sat in the middle of the room, hunched over. His head had been bowed forwards, resting on his arms, but it jerked upright as the door swung inwards. He swallowed as he looked at Dean, and tightened his arms around himself. Dean's head started to throb as he stood there watching Sam huddled against his knees, sitting next to the body. There were shadows in and under his eyes and he looked shattered.

"Hey Sammy." He tested the waters, leaning against the door. He was still half outside. His voice was curiously soft

"Hey Dean." Sam's voice was hoarse; Dean scarcely recognised it. Sam cleared his throat a couple of times, bringing one fist up to cover his mouth. He was staring up at him, eyes filling.

Dean stepped fully into the room, keeping his stare focussed completely on his brother; he did not want to see…not yet.

"You hurt?" There was blood on his sleeve.

Sam shook his head, moving his arm out of sight. His face was pale, but he was upright, responsive, watching Dean warily. His eyes were red and his cheeks showed signs of drying tears, but nothing recent. The fact that he was sitting next to a dead body, seemingly ignorant of the pool of blood that was leaching its way towards him counted against him though. The nearly mute thing was another huge sign that all wasn't right in Sam land.

Sam's eyes were tracking Dean's movements, fixing him in place; they were pleading, and warning and hurt. He finally looked away, back down at Madison's blood, and Dean felt like he could breathe again. Almost against his will he found himself following Sam's gaze, watching the blood seeping nearer to Sam. Madison's fingers trailed down; they were just curled up there, like she was asleep and her hand had fallen off the bed. One nail had been bitten off and Dean found himself wondering if it had happened just before…he pursed his lips. She was slumped forwards, her hair covering part of her face. Blood was curled into that, and on her skin, her eyes. He winced as he looked at her.

She looked peaceful despite all that, and Dean felt…relieved wasn't the right word, but it was all he could come up with. He hadn't been able to hear what had been going on in here. He didn't know whether she had changed her mind and begged Sam not to kill her. He didn't know whether she had panicked, or whether she'd really been at peace with the decision. She looked as though it had ended…well. As well as it could.

Dean took a further step in, eyes not missing the slight flinch that Sam gave, though he didn't look away from his brother or make any protest. He was watching Dean approach, warily. He was hunched forwards slightly, as though trying to shield Madison's body from view.

Sam's muscles were tensing further with each step nearer Dean took. His breathing was quickening, and Dean could see him trembling slightly. He was ready to act, though Dean wasn't sure whether it was to flee or to fight. He paused, folding his arms across his chest, watching Sam holding position. It was too soon to go close. He wandered over to the window, perching on the sill, eyes on Sam the whole way.

He could hear Sam clear his throat a couple more times before he shuffled round to look at Dean, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Dean rubbed at his eye with one finger, wiping up the left side of his face before turning to look outside. He could still feel the weight of Sam's stare on the back of his neck.

"You all right?" Somehow it was easier to ask that question with his back turned, when he couldn't see him. He was frankly disbelieving when Sam replied, "Yeah."

He inhaled sharply, breathing out slowly through his nose, his clenched fist bouncing on the windowsill. "Sure you are, Sammy."

Why did he always do this? How come when it was Dean he was worried about Sam begged him to talk, yet if Dean wanted to get a straight answer out of his brother people's lives had to be in danger?

"Sure you are." He didn't try to keep the sarcasm hidden, and he knew from Sam's slight huff of breath that he had picked up on it.

He turned slowly, so as not to spook Sam. The kid hadn't moved from where he'd left him, other than to sit up slightly straighter. He had flecks of blood on his lip, and when Dean looked closer one of his hands was coated with the stuff.

Sam swiftly hid it from view, dangling his hands between his knees, when he followed Dean's gaze down to it. He wasn't quick enough that Dean hadn't missed it shaking.

"Yeah, you're doing just fine." Sam didn't answer back, turning his head away to stare at the floor.

Dean took a step towards his brother, who once again tensed, his breaths were audible from across the room. Dean shook his head in exasperation, kicking at something on the floor; it was sent flying across the room. He stopped still, his eyes following it, watching it spinning. The light reflected off it, sending shots of pain through his head. Sam's head also twisted up.

It came to rest against the table leg. Sam was staring at it, transfixed; the shadows in his face seemed to deepen as he lost colour. It was the gun. The shakes in Sam's hands moved up to encompass his arms.

Dean swallowed, looking at Sam's bowed head; there was a faint trace of blood in his hair where he had gripped it. He shook himself and started moving forwards. "I got it, Sammy."

He knelt down and picked it up, checking the safety. It was on. He pocketed it, feeling Sam watching him all the time. He heard Sam breathe out quickly, and saw his shoulders lessening in tension as soon as it was out of sight. His own headache was gaining in strength.

Dean could feel the weapon weighing heavy in his pocket. He felt as though it was pulling him down. He pulled a chair out, and perched down on the edge, leaning towards Sam. His hands dangled between his legs for a minute or two breathing out heavily. He ran one hand through the back of his hair squeezing hard against the tension in his neck before he firmed his jaw and raised his head, resting his hands on the table. "So…"

Dean saw Sam clench his jaw and turn slightly away, swallowing before replying. His voice still sounded croaky. "So?"

He looked at the back of Sam's head and sighed, his fingers drumming against the tabletop. He wanted to leave, but Sam wasn't ready. "So…I'll just clean up in here, huh? How about that?"

Sam shrugged; he still wasn't looking at Dean. Neither of them was looking at Madison, though Dean could see Sam flexing his fingers as her blood reached them. He shuffled over slightly, moving away. Dean could feel his heart quickening at the sight. Sammys should not be covered in blood.

He stood up sharply. "Ok then." He pushed the chair neatly back under the table, sneaking glances at Sam who was still turned away. Dean took his time, making sure the back was perfectly aligned with the wall before he left it, satisfied. Sam still hadn't looked back. He regretted putting the duster away. If he hadn't been…_concerned_…about what was happening in here, he'd have realised that he would need it again and brought it with him. It hadn't been at the top of his thoughts at the time. He used the sleeve of his shirt instead, starting with the chair back before moving on to the TV.

He'd managed to wipe that, the PC and the table before Sam spoke again, voice muffled by his knees. "I'm sorry."

Dean leaned his hand on the table and looked up, breathing out heavily. Sam's hand was on Madison's. "So'm I Sammy, she was…"

"Not for that," Sam interrupted, still looking at the floor. "Though…"His voice was tight, painfully controlled. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

"For what then?" Dean couldn't quite keep the confused exasperation from his voice as he leant back against the wall watching his brother stumble for words.

Sam's finger rubbed along the floor, tracing a pattern. His head was still turned to the side until it lifted slowly and he finally had the nerve to pierce Dean with his stare. There was a horrible brightness in his eyes, burning him within. "I'm sorry, because…I won't take it back." His arm squeezed round his legs tighter.

Dean's headache was gnawing him in the eye. The whole of the left side of his face felt tight.

Sam tried to smile up at him, but the shadows in his face made it appear stretched. "I want it to be you."

It was Dean's turn to look away. His hands tightened on the remote he was wiping. "Just drop it Sam, now isn't the time," he growled out. He felt as though he was shouting but the words barely came out. For God's sake Sammy, you just killed someone you liked. Deal with that first.

"Dean…" Sam closed his eyes momentarily, rubbing at his face with one hand, and smearing blood across it. Dean's stomach was starting to turn over. He needed to end this, now.

"I need to know that I won't hurt anyone else." Sam's hand stopped tracing against the floor, running into the blood that had pooled next to him. He stared at his hand, slowly watching it shake slightly.

"Sam." Dean managed to choke out a word. This wasn't happening. He hadn't been expecting this. "Stop."

"Madison," Sam paused at her name, his breath shaking, before carrying on, rushing through the words. "She went knowing that she'd taken lives." He looked up at Dean. "So have I. She's the second, and I don't want to take any more."

Dean could feel the edges of the remote biting into his hand. The blood that should be reaching his fingers was pulsing in his head, but it was better than succumbing to the temptation to bash some sense into his brother. "What Meg did while she was in you does not _count_. How many more times do I have to say that?"

"Dean," Sam heaved a huge sigh, letting go of Madison's hand. "I'm just saying, that if we can't …" He was interrupted.

"Not gonna happen." Dean almost believed himself. He'd stalked across the room and was standing in front of Sam. He felt like he was breathing through water.

"I'm not asking to die Dean!" Sam rose to his knees, one arm thrown out for balance. It was the first real movement he'd given since Dean had entered the room. "Just, if there's nothing else left to do, if we've tried everything. I just want you to _know_ that it was my decision." His eyes were intense and tired and burning a hole in Dean's head. "I want you to save me."

"We're going to fix this Sam," Dean's teeth were grinding together, he wanted to look away but couldn't. "I won't let it happen to you."

Sam's eyes softened, a hint of a real smile formed in his lips, dying as the bites in his lips cracked open again. "I know; I won't let it happen either. But _if_…" There was a resolve behind those words and Dean made a promise to himself to start locking up the guns each night. There was something in Sam's eyes that set his hackles rising.

Dean imagined staring into those eyes as his finger tightened over the trigger. He had to squint as his head rebelled; he wanted to get out of here so badly…

Dean knelt down in front of Sam, who had relaxed back on to his heels, and had his head bent away, watching Madison's face. His hand hovered above Sam's shoulder, near enough to feel the heat from it, but he could see it tensing as he drew near, and so he pulled back, rubbing at his head before dropping it to his side.

"You ready to get out of here?"

Sam gave a little shudder. "Can I have five minutes?" His voice sounded small and injured, and Dean's hand itched pull him away, to get him the hell out of here.

Sam needed this. "Five minutes Sam. Then we need to go."

Sam nodded his head once. Dean heard him sniff. "I'll just…you know." Dean waved in the direction of the room, but Sam wasn't listening.

He concentrated on finishing the rest of the room, studiously ignoring Sam's periodic coughing. He wiped down any surface he could think of that they may of touched, any that they may have breathed on, and then doing it all over again a second time because he wasn't ready either, damnit.

Finally there was nothing else left to do; he leant against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. "Sam?"

Sam's hand was touching Madison's hair again, but it twitched away quickly at Dean's voice. As though it was forbidden.

He breathed out slowly, running his hand against her face before clenching it and raising it to his lips. He closed his eyes, reaching out blindly for the floor to push himself off. Sam felt his knees shaking as he tried to stand; the cold from the floor had seeped in and sapped his strength. He was stiff. His arm was grasped firmly and he was pulled to his feet. He heard Dean cursing at the amount of blood that coated his hand.

Sam leaned slightly into his brother, trying to get his feet under him. His eyes had sprung open at his brother's touch, and he could feel the tears rising again as he stared down at Madison for the last time. He forced them back. He was not going to cry in front of his brother. Not again. Not tonight. Not ever if he could help it.

He felt Dean release his arm and clasp the back of his neck briefly, pulling his head away from the scene. He was gently guided in the direction of the door.

"C'mon, Sam. Let's get out of here." Dean squeezed his neck in support.

Sam tried to talk, tried to say goodbye, he did, honestly, but all that came out was a choke. He tried to turn his head and look back, his feet slowing.

Dean's hand tightened again, stopping him, before pulling away. He pressed against Sam's shoulder pushing him out into the hall before it was removed. Sam felt lost, turning his head looking for his brother.

Dean wiped down the light switch, the door handle, and then pulled the door to. It clicked loudly. Sam's head was pounding fiercely. He hadn't eaten, that was it. He hadn't had enough sleep either; his head was ringing.

"Wait here."

It took a few minutes to seep into his consciousness and then he raised his head, following Dean's back as it headed into the bathroom. He emerged with a handful of damp paper.

"Close your eyes."

Sam obeyed, mutely. He felt something beautifully cool on his forehead and he leaned into it with a sigh. He mumbled a sound of protest as it moved away, scrubbing briskly at his cheeks, over his eyes, and then gently over the cuts on his lips.

It was pulled away completely, and Sam felt Dean holding his wrist as he wiped carefully down each finger, underneath, the palm and the back of his hands. He could feel his heart rate slowing.

His hands felt cold when Dean let them fall to his sides. He heard him walk off and then the toilet flushed. "All done, Sam, lets go, huh?"

He opened his eyes reluctantly, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Here, take this." Sam looked up as he felt something warm and heavy drape itself around his shoulders; his fingers clutched at it.

"Dean? What?" Sam couldn't understand.

Dean's hand waved in his direction. "You've got blood on you, dude. Let's try and get out of here unnoticed?" His tone may have sounded sharp, but there was none of it reflected in his eyes.

Sam looked around the room one last time, burning it into his mind before turning away and opening the door. He stepped outside, turning to see Dean rubbing at the door handle with his sleeve.

He sighed and hugged the coat tighter around him, breathing in.


	4. The Hush

Sam was quiet in the car. He'd slunk in while Dean was wiping down the door – the keys were in Dean's coat - and he'd sagged down into the passenger seat. Dean had turned and missed him for a panicked moment before spying him and getting in the driver's seat beside him.

He sat back with a sigh, reaching automatically into his pocket for the keys before realising where they were and holding his hand out. Sam was huddled in Dean's coat, staring out the window and didn't notice. Dean snapped his fingers right beside Sam's ear. Sam flinched and turned his head slowly to face Dean, one hand rising to grasp his ear. His eyebrows tilted up slightly in question, making him wince as they pulled against his cuts.

"Keys?" Dean rubbed his fingers together before holding his palm out flat in Sam's face.

Sam looked down at his hand in his lap. The keys were clutched tightly between his fingers, the knuckles and nails white with the pressure. He reached across and unsteadily placed them in Dean's hand. They stuck to his hand a little; he had to shake them off.

They were hot and sticky and Dean tightened his hand around them before sticking them in the ignition and flicking them angrily. The car roared to life making Sam jump slightly from where he had been pressing at the red impressions the keys had left. Dean sat there with his hands flexing on the wheel.

He watched the back of Sam's head. "You want to get out of this place?"

Sam shrugged, not looking at Dean. His whole body radiated exhaustion. He was slumped in the seat, head facing down at his hand, which he kept rubbing. Dean could just see him blinking in the corner of one eye. He was still wrapped in Dean's coat, had somehow moved it so that it covered his front.

Dean shifted forwards, leaning his head against the wheel. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose against the headache that wouldn't go away. It was still afternoon, they could easily get a few hundred miles away before dark. He wanted to drive as far and as fast away from this whole thing as he could get. On the other hand it had been over twelve hours since Dean had eaten, he'd been up half the night, he didn't think Sam'd slept properly in days, couldn't even imagine the last time he'd eaten, and his head was pounding.

He looked over at Sam who was squinting slightly against the sun, staring back at Madison's apartment. He was still rubbing at his hands though he didn't seem aware of it. His foot was jigging rapidly. At least if they were driving he would be doing something, not just sitting in the motel room staring at the walls. Decision made, he wrestled the car into reverse and put his foot down.

"I'm gonna check us out." He glanced over at Sam before turning his eyes back to the road glaring at a bus driver who looked he might pull out in front of him.

Sam blinked and grunted slightly. That was only sign he gave that he'd even heard Dean.

Dean drove through the silence; it seemed wrong to have music on just now. He was ignoring the odd impatient horn beeping. He kept flicking his eyes between the road and his brother. By the time they made it back to the motel through the early rush hour traffic, Dean knew he would have to fork out for another night even though they weren't going to stay. That did nothing to help his mood or his headache. Sam waited in the car curled up in the seat, leaning against the door, pillowing his head with one hand. Dean could still see flecks of blood under the nails.

"You awake?" Sam didn't move. "Ok then, I'll be right back."

Dean entered the room and sank down on the first bed he came to, resting his head in his hands. He took in a deep breath and held it, rubbing his hand through his hair as he exhaled. He pulled out the gun from his back pocket and chucked it onto the pillow; it had been digging into his ribs in the car but he hadn't wanted to take it out and spook Sam.

He rested his head in one hand, it was really pounding now; he needed some sleep, but he was pretty sure Sam needed to be moving. He always rested better in the car. Dean thought that the sound of the engine or the music was enough to stop him dwelling on anything.

He sighed and stood up, lurching slightly on his way to the bathroom. Inside, he uncapped a bottle of aspirin and fisted four pills into his mouth. He turned on the faucet and cupped a handful of water into his mouth to wash them down, splashing some over his face to wake him up a bit. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror as he gathered their crap off the sink; he looked old, man.

It didn't take very long to get their stuff together; they travelled light and hardly bothered to unpack anywhere. Sam had barely spent any time here anyway and most of his stuff was still in its bag. He grabbed what little there was, hurling it into their duffels. His own stuff he didn't care about, but he took care to put Sam's away neatly, brushing it flat. Normally he would have just chucked it in any which way, but today…not today.

Satisfied the room was empty, Dean gave the place a quick rub down for prints, just in case they were tracked here. He left the room, blinking a little and shielding his eyes as the sun caught him across the face. He rapped sharply on Sam's window as he walked past the car. His brother wasn't asleep; his eyes were open, staring blankly at the dashboard. Sam tilted his head back to look at Dean before flopping it forwards again.

He loaded everything into the trunk, slamming the lid louder than necessary trying to get Sam to react. He didn't. "I'm just going to hand back the keys." Sam nodded, acknowledging with a wave of his hand, but not looking at him.

Dean forked over the cash paying the extra night without arguing; he didn't want to be away from Sam too long. He did give the desk clerk a long look though, which had him quailing.

Returning, Dean sat back down in the car. "Ready, Sam?" No answer. He switched on the ignition and then reached out and turned the stereo on. He'd had enough of Sam's quiet. It blared loudly, and he immediately turned it down. His head couldn't take that kind of punishment. Sam stirred uneasily and Dean was tempted to turn it back up – at least it got a reaction.

He sat back in his seat, pulling out into the dwindling traffic. He could feel the muscles in his neck gradually easing as the roads grew clearer. The pills had taken the edge off his headache, and between concentrating on the road and the music in the background he felt more normal. His repeated glances over at Sammy though showed that his brother was far from the fine he claimed to be.

Sam's breathing filled the car, just louder than the music. Years of sharing rooms meant that Dean could tell when he was sleeping or not. He was pretty sure Sam was awake at the moment.

Sam was stirring restlessly in the seat, his fingers pulling at the edge of Dean's coat. He'd go through periods where he'd have his eyes open, staring out at the road, or at the lights through the windscreen, and then he'd have moments where he just had to squeeze his eyes shut. Neither seemed particularly easeful for him. His face was currently turned towards his brother, eyes closed. He still hadn't let go of Dean's coat, using it as a blanket.

The music had been muted, loud enough that they didn't have to talk, but quiet enough that they could if Sam wanted to. He didn't. Dean noticed that Sam was easier when the music was playing, when the cassette ended or there was a break in the songs he stirred. The tape ended just then, as though on purpose.

It was getting dark and Dean's head was shooting pains at him as he squinted against the lights of the oncoming traffic. He'd kill for a coffee right about now. He'd stiffened up during the drive, and the concentrating had sapped his strength. Sam was silent in the corner, but he was too stiff to be asleep.

Thankfully Dean spotted a motel sign flashing up vacancies and pulled in. He didn't hold out much hope for the standards, but they needed to get off the road. Sam didn't stir until Dean switched off the engine and opened his door.

"Dean?" Sam's voice sounded old and underused. He lifted his head and Dean could see a red imprint from the collar of his coat.

Dean paused, one foot out the car, and turned back to look at his brother. "Stay here, Sammy; I'm just gonna check us in."

Sam's face was pale as the light reflected off it; his hair was mussed. The neon flickered badly and Sam looked away, blinking.

Dean gave a twist to his mouth, suddenly unhappy about leaving Sam behind. He patted the door of the car closed. "I won't be long."

Sam glanced back at him, nodding. "OK, Dean."

Dean moved stiffly over to the office, he could feel Sam's eyes following him. Maybe he wasn't the only one who didn't want to be out of sight. He stepped inside, batting at the bell, as the desk was untended. The hum of the overhead light drew another wince from him as it aggravated his head. He hurried through the transaction, paying in cash not haggling and not even trying to get the girl's number. He felt as though he was twice her age though she could only be about Sam's.

He crawled back into the car, chucking the receipt at Sam who held it tight between his fingers. Dean started the car, managing to pull over to a place conveniently outside the room they'd been given. The paint was flaking off the door and windowsill. It didn't look up to much, which probably explained the lack of cars.

Sam was looking more alert, sitting up and rubbing his hands over his face. Dean winced as he winced as he scraped against the cuts on his cheek and lips. "We get inside I'll clean those up for you."

"Hmm?" Sam looked up from staring at the specks of blood he'd just wiped on his hand, "Oh. It's okay" He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly, and chucked the coat back at a disbelieving Dean. "Here."

Dean was left sitting in the car, holding his coat as Sam pushed open his door and forced himself into a standing position. He leaned against the car for a moment before slamming the door shut.

"Hey! Be careful." Dean got out, closing his door – gently – and pulling the coat around him. It was warm. He tried not to notice the odd sticky patch from the blood.

Sam had already moved round to the trunk, rifling through for his bag. He yanked it out and pulled Dean's too, dumping it on the floor and slamming the lid down before Dean even made it round. Dean wondered where the sudden need to be moving came from. It didn't last long.

Sam bent down and grabbed the duffel, throwing it at Dean who caught it automatically, before heading off towards the door. Dean watched him, leaning his ass against the hood soaking up the warmth. Sam was hunched over still stiff from the car; he was walking away, slowing with each pace. By the end he was almost limping. His shoulders were slumped and he was dragging his bag more than carrying it. He reached the door and pushed it, it didn't open.

Dean sighed, scuffing his boot in the dirt. "Want these?" He held the keys up in his hand waiting for Sam to cup his hands ready to catch them. He didn't, just leaned against the door and Dean hefted his duffel up with a sigh, locking the Impala.

Sam was the second through the door, and he didn't look around like Dean, just dropped his bag at the foot of the nearest bed and collapsed on it face down. Dean glanced around, making a face at the garish wallpaper, which clashed with the spreads. He walked over to the far bed, and sat down, lifting his feet up onto the bed with a sigh as he laid his head down on the pillow and closed his eyes. Even his hair hurt. He reached down and undid his boots, toeing them off. He felt twice as light without them on.

He could hear Sam moving on the other bed, squirming to undo his belt, which must be digging in. He'd kicked off his shoes and had his face planted down in the pillow when Dean sat up to check on him. "Sammy?"

Sam lifted one hand in a flap of acknowledgement. Even his hand looked drained as it flopped back onto the bed. His breathing was biting into Dean's skull, the rustling of the covers and the creaking of the springs piercing him. Now that he'd stopped moving his head was pounding again, the room still felt like it was moving. He needed to take more pills but he needed to eat first.

He sighed as he sat back up and hunted around for his boots that he'd just kicked off. "I'm going out for food, any preferences?" Dean didn't feel up to a night out, he just wanted something quick so he could take the pills and sleep. Sam hadn't answered him, burrowing deeper into the pillow.

"What do you want, Sam?" he asked again. He wasn't going to let Sam get away with doing this.

Sam shrugged his shoulders, not looking at his brother.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was getting stern.

"Fries maybe? I'm not…I couldn't…" Sam's voice tailed off. It was muffled in the pillow anyway, and Dean had had to strain to hear that much.

"I'll get you something," Dean finished; he'd managed to stand up again and dragged himself over to the door. "You need anything else?" Dean heard more than saw Sam shake his head, the mattress moved with it.

"Back in a few then." Sam couldn't lift his head to watch him leave.

---------

It was quiet in the motel room after Dean had left. Sam missed his breathing, his rustling, the noise that accompanied him everywhere; it distracted him from thinking. He was tired but every time he shut his eyes he saw Madison. Lying on his stomach was making breathing hard, and he reluctantly turned over to lie on his back.

He ached all over, especially his neck and head. He had felt good last night, happy even for the first time in a really long time. There were consequences however of using muscles that had seen little action recently. He felt sticky, and he smelled of sweat. There was a cold pit in his stomach that seemed to be sucking all the warmth from him. It was hard to breathe around. He felt detached.

Sam looked around without really seeing anything, with the vague notion of searching for the TV. He finally spied it on the far side of the room, no remote. He couldn't get up. Sam sagged back on the bed and covered his face with one arm. He could feel the tears building up again. He thrust the pillow over his eyes, letting it absorb the moisture that leaked out. When Dean came back he could hide the moist side underneath so he wouldn't be able to tell. He was being too quiet and considerate. It was getting on Sam's nerves. It just reminded him that things were wrong.

The pillow smelt musty, and the fabric was cool on his skin. He was cool all over actually, and reached down to flip part of the covers over his legs for warmth. He pulled the edges down over his ears, if there was nothing to hear but silence at least he wasn't going to be able to hear it. He could hear his pulse throbbing in his head. He gave several quick breaths into the pillow, muffled and sharp.

Distantly he heard the Impala pulling up outside, the wheels kicking up the gravel as Dean jerked to a stop. He hadn't had to go far then. Sam could hear him walking up to the door. There was a click as the lock turned and Dean entered. Sam pulled the pillow away from his face to watch at him; he looked tired. There were two bags in his hand, two under his eyes, and from the smell that was kicking up a storm in his stomach Sam wasn't going to enjoy the next few minutes.

"Got you a burger and fries." Dean kicked the door shut with his heel.

Sam pulled the pillow away and pushed it down onto the bed, running his hand through his hair before pushing himself into a seated position. Dean dropped one of the bags on the bed beside him, before moving off to sit on his own.

Sam leaned over and grabbed it; it was warm and he could feel the grease soaking through the bag. He opened it reluctantly, feeling Dean's eyes on him as he sat, already munching away on his own. The smell that wafted up had him moving one hand to rest on his stomach, the other pushing the food away, sealing the bag shut.

"Sam." Dean's voice held a warning.

"I'm just not hungry, Dean." Sam wanted to curl up and sleep, pretend today had never happened.

"You feel sick?" Dean's hand had stilled in the fries as he eyed his brother in concern.

Sam shook his head though it was probably blatantly obvious to Dean that he was nauseous.

"Try, Sam." Dean's voice sounded so tired that Sam thought he'd better try.

He didn't eat much of it, tearing at the roll, picking at the meat, ripping it into small pieces. He nibbled a little at the bread, and ate a couple of fries, but he was forcing even that much. He was squeezing a fry between his fingers when he saw red. At the sight of the blood still under his fingernails he dropped the whole thing back into the bag on his lap, and pushed it away. He wiped his fingers frantically on the paper.

Dean's eyes were shadowed as they watched him. "Sam."

Sam couldn't seem to get the stain out. The grease on his hands felt warm and sticky, like her blood had. He wiped his hands on his pants, but it didn't seem to help. He'd gotten to his feet without realising. "I'm just going to shower. I won't use all the water."

He didn't meet Dean's eyes and didn't see the compassion in them. "Sammy?"

Sam sent a wavering smile in his direction, still not meeting his eye. "I'm fine. Just tired."

Dean put his own burger down half-eaten and watched his brother enter the bathroom. The door shut with a sharp click, which spiked through his head. He dug through his duffel for the painkillers, knocking back a handful, then threw one arm over his face and stretched out on his back. He sighed, feeling every muscle protesting.

----------

Sam stumbled into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, leaning back against it for a moment, breathing heavily. He had one hand clenched against his hip; he could feel it shaking as he squeezed his hand tighter trying to get a hold of his emotions.

He pushed away from the door, wrapping his arms around himself, needing to pace but not having enough room. He wanted to be outside running, working off the emotions, but he didn't think Dean was going to let him out of his sight long enough for that.

Sam could feel his hands shaking as he leant against the basin, head bowed. He caught sight of blood in the crevices of his fingers and curled them out of sight. His stomach was quibbling with the little bit of food he had managed to consume, and he suddenly lurched forwards, spitting bile. His whole body was shaking afterwards, his breath coming in sharp pants. Sam could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead, where he leant on his arm.

He reached blindly out and struggled to turn on the faucet; it gave finally with a sudden burst. He rinsed his mouth out a couple of times with warming water before letting the basin fill. Steam rose as he submerged his hands in the water. He scrubbed at them until they ached; no matter how long he seemed to leave them in they wouldn't get clean. Sam drained the pink-tinged water and filled the basin again, soaking his hands in until they began to go numb as the water cooled.

He pulled his hands out, staring at the bluish, wrinkled tips. He splashed water onto his face and rested a damp hand across his forehead, wiping down and rubbing gently over his eyes, which were gritty and aching. His legs felt disconnected and he half-sat, mostly collapsed, on the closed toilet seat, leaning his head against his arm, which rested along the rim of the basin.

He startled with a jerk, nearly falling off his seat at Dean's call.

"Sam? You drowned in there?" Dean was banging on the door.

He cleared his throat, which still burned. "Dean, it's okay." Dean stood there silent, not satisfied. Sam knew he hadn't left yet but was still listening.

"You forgot clothes, Sammy," Dean said finally. "You want something to change into?"

Sam's head fell forwards, hanging from his shoulders. He had to pull himself up on the sink before stumbling forwards. He unlocked the door, opening it just far enough that he could reach out and take Dean's offering.

"Thanks." His voice sounded as beaten as the rest of him.

Dean caught hold of Sam's hand as he tried to pull the clothes towards him, holding it tighter as he felt the cold leeching off it. "What did you do?" He shook Sam's hand slightly, taking a step forwards.

Sam pulled his hand roughly out of Dean's, closing the door and leaning on it. "There was blood on it." He rubbed his fingers, staring down at his hands. "It wouldn't come off."

"Sammy, please." Dean's voice was low and hoarse. Sam turned the lock firmly. "Damnit!" He felt Dean bang the door in frustration. He could hear him pacing outside before his footsteps grew less frenetic and the mattress creaked as he sat on it. He'd probably be watching the door until Sam came out.

Sam put his clothes down on the closed toilet seat, leaning in with a heavy hand to turn on the shower. The hot water gurgled in the pipes, matching the rest of the motel in quality when the faintest trickle came out the showerhead. He stuck his hand in the flow, feeling it warm up slowly. No matter how hard he turned the dial he couldn't get it hot.

He started unbuttoning his shirt, and stripping. His muscles felt overused, and lifting his arms took effort. His breath hitched as he caught a whiff of Madison's perfume on his collar. He closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. It was cool on his bare back, condensation sending small droplets trickling down. The shirt felt heavy and his hands trembled as he lifted it up to his nose; he could smell her, under his own smell of sweat. His fingers tightened in the fabric and he buried his head in it, inhaling in gasps.

When he lifted his head again his eyes were blurred from the steam, which had him breathing in gasps, and the shirt felt damp. He threw it blindly away, ripping off the rest of his clothes and adding them to the pile before entering the shower.

The water was the warm side of lukewarm, inching its way down him rather than sluicing. Sam rested his head against the wall, letting the water fall onto his hair. He felt like it should be pounding down on him, punishing him.

He stood there, letting it wash him clean; absolve him. He was in there a long time. By the end he could hardly feel it, could hardly feel anything. He was numb. It seemed to take all his energy with him as it pooled by his feet. Sam had to drag himself away from the wall and out of the shower knowing that Dean would be waiting outside.

He towelled himself off roughly, wincing as he caught the scratches on his cheek. He dressed slowly, wanting to prolong his space as long as possible. When he exited Dean was exactly where he expected him to be.

Sam walked over to his bed, ignoring him, hanging the towel on a chair to dry. Dean had tidied up, throwing out the leftovers that had sent Sam running from the room. He must have opened a window to let out the smell. Sam could feel the weight of his brother's assessing stare on the back of his neck.

He pulled off the bedcovers, untucking them so that he wouldn't be bunched up, before getting in and turning over so his back was to Dean. He could feel his brother's eyes still on him. "Goodnight, Dean." He kept his eyes squeezed shut.

Dean kept his voice low. "You want me to check out those cuts?"

Sam's hand lifted unconsciously to his lips, feeling the gashes in his cheek as he shook his head.

"You sure?"

"It's fine Dean. Leave it!" His hand tightened its grip on the pillow as his voice came out sharper than he intended.

He heard his brother breath out heavily. "Night, Sam." The mattress creaked as Dean got up and headed to the bathroom.

Sam's eyes opened as soon as he heard the water start running. There were salt lines at the doors and windows already; Dean must have done them while he was in the shower. Sam found himself staring at the grains, wondering how many there were making up the lines.

The water was barely running for five minutes and Dean was in and out quickly, wet footsteps slapping along the wooden floor to hang up his towel next to Sam's. Sam could hear his breaths loud in the quiet, halfway between the beds.

"You awake?" Dean spoke in a hushed voice. Sam could feel his shadow lying across his face, but he didn't move.

He heard Dean run his hand through his hair, sighing, before walking over to his bed and pulling the spread down. The mattress creaked as he sat and lifted his legs onto it. He gave a slight groan as he took his weight off his feet. Sam could hear the sheets rustling as he shoved them aside and leaned over to turn off the light.

Darkness fell. Dean had pulled the curtains to, but there was a slight chink at the top where Sam could see the moonlight fall through. He watched the tiny dust particles in the room float and scatter in the sliver of light.

Dean's breaths were easing slightly over the far side, but Sam knew he wasn't sleeping. He could hear him clearing his throat occasionally, and turning over, as one side grew numb.

Sam yawned; he was tired. He wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, forget everything that had happened, but every time he shut his eyes he saw her.

He felt cold all over as his hand tightened reflexively around a gun that was no longer there. He was clasping a corner of the pillow so his nails did not cut him. It was that look on her face that he couldn't get out of his head; the one right at the end when he was pointing the gun at her. The one where her trust slipped and she couldn't hide the fear. She'd been afraid of him. Sam was terrified he'd have to get used to looks like that.

"Sam, I can hear you thinking from over here. Go to sleep." Dean's voice sounded gravelly, and for an instant Sam thought it was his father. He gave a sharp bark of laughter, which he tried to muffle. He suddenly missed him intensely. His eyes felt like they should be leaking again, but he was all cried out.

He heard a creak as Dean sat up in bed, leaning over to turn on the light. He winced as it came on, accompanied by low curses, and when he looked over he saw that Dean had one hand over his eyes, shielding them from it.

He rolled over to face him, pulling the covers up to his chin; he was freezing. "Sorry."

"You doing okay?" Dean's hand was rubbing at his eyes now; his head was leaning to one side and Sam could see the creases of pain across his forehead, as well as a pattern of red where he'd been resting.

Sam's lips twitched in what he hoped Dean took as a faint smile. He didn't have the strength for anything more.

The shadows cast on Dean's face looked uncertain, his eyes flicked to his brother's face, assessing him once more. Sam was starting to feel caged. His head was spacey and the light glaring in his eyes wasn't helping. Eventually Dean flicked the light off, though he was far from satisfied. When Sam's vision blinked clear he could still see the white of Dean's face pointed in his direction. "Good night, Sam." Dean's voice was muffled in the pillow and Sam wasn't sure he heard it. "Sleep tight."

Sam breathed out, allowing himself to sink a little more comfortably into the mattress. It was lumpy and uncomfortable, and there was a broken spring he kept catching his knee on every time he moved. He could hear his pulse roaring in his ear and he shifted his head slightly on the pillow, eyes springing open as he jabbed his knee again.

Outside, Sam could hear the intermittent roar of traffic growing less, as the night grew older. The beam of light cast by the moon had moved now and was resting part way down Dean's bed. His chest was rising and falling evenly, his breaths sounding loud in the darkness, but he looked too tense to be asleep. A car backfired outside and he saw Dean flinch slightly. His own heart was racing, and he buried his head under the pillow, crushing his face into the mattress.

After a while it began to get hot and stuffy under there, breathing was becoming an issue. He pulled his head out enjoying the feel of the sweat cooling before shivering, as he grew cold again. Dean's breathing seemed louder now, with a hint of throat getting involved. He was on the cusp of sleep. Sam envied him.

His back was starting to cramp and he rolled over onto it, stretching his legs out. He never seemed able to sleep when staring up at the ceiling, but he was sore from being static too long. Dean stirred at the noise and Sam held his breath hoping not to wake him further. He breathed out quietly as Dean seemed to ease back.

It was quiet at this time of night. There was no traffic moving past now. Sam could hear the wind gusting gently against the windowpane. It wasn't airtight, and a cool breeze drifted in with each rattle, stirring the curtains slightly. It was too quiet. His arms felt empty. Last night he had fallen asleep wrapped around Madison, listening to her breathing in his ear, smelling her shampoo and brushing her hair out of his nose. His bed was a single, but it felt too empty.

Sam's eyes were wide-open and dry. There was a weight perched on his chest that tickled every time he took a deep breath, but he felt empty. His head was throbbing with exhaustion, but he couldn't keep his eyes closed. He was both too hot and too cold, and his feet were entangled in the sheets, which wrapped themselves tighter around him with each turn. His mind was racing, thinking about nothing and everything at the same time. He needed something to focus on, to distract him, but the room was dark. He found himself matching his breathing in time to Dean's.

The clock outside struck two thirty, and Sam hissed as the spring caught against his knee when he jumped; he'd drawn blood that time he was sure. He heard Dean clearing his throat.

"Sam?" he sounded half asleep.

"Go to sleep, Dean." Sam's teeth were gritted as he rubbed viciously at his knee. He leaned back in bed hearing Dean do the same, and threw his elbow over his eyes. He needed to sleep.

--

Dean kept his eyes closed and his face turned away from his brother. The tension in his neck was crippling his head. He needed an hour-long soak, better pills than he had available, or sleep to kick it. He never wanted to move again.

His breathing sounded loud in his ears; he was trying to keep it low and even, and not jog the bed. A sharp bang from outside had him jumping slightly and pinching himself hard on the leg so he wouldn't yell. He could hear Sam catch and hold his breath over on the other side of the room.

He'd heard him fidgeting and turning and breathing and rolling, and his teeth were gritted tightly together. He was toying with the idea of landing one on Sam's jaw to put him out, but it was too much effort to move. Reaching out to turn off the light had about done him in.

The room was getting warm with the windows closed, but he knew it would be too loud if they were open; the curtains were wafting out even now. Good job it wasn't raining. Dean clenched his teeth together and rolled onto his back. He couldn't seem to find a cool patch of bed to lie on; even the pillows were too hot. He threw his covers off with a quiet sigh.

He heard Sam scrape across his sheets, turning over _again. _He tried to squint at his watch in the darkness, but either it was too dark or his eyes weren't working properly. It was late; he knew that. Or early. It felt about three. Dean dug his fingers into the side of the bed as he heard Sam sigh heavily; his hands felt dry from all the cleaning. He pinched two fingers into his eyes right at the bridge of his nose. He was not going to go there.

He startled as a clock outside chimed thrice. Damn he was good. Sam muttered something across the room as he rolled over yet again.

"Sam?" His voice wasn't working right, it sounded crooked.

"Go to sleep, Dean." Sam's voice was a hiss in the silence. Dean could hear him swallowing afterwards.

He managed to turn to face his brother, but Sam's face was covered by his arm. Dean could see it tensing as he nuzzled his face into it.

"Sam." Dean put a note of warning in his tone this time. This had gone on long enough.

Sam's arm dropped from his face and his eyes sought his brother's, staring at him for a long time before lowering to stare at his chin. He wiped his face with his hand, pulling at his lips before speaking. "Are we just going to, you know, leave her there?" His gaze had dropped while he spoke, and he was watching his hand picking at the covers. His eyes flicked up to squint in Dean's direction.

Dean closed his eyes; the moonlight glinted off Sam's and there was too much feeling in them. He wished they could just forget about her, forget this had happened and move on, but his brother was never going to let that happen. He should have insisted on being the one. "If it doesn't make the news by morning I'll call Bobby, get him to leave an anonymous tip."

Sam mulled that over, watching his fingers smoothing out the lump he'd just made of the sheets. His eyes lifted towards Dean's again. "Do you think she's alright?"

Dean could hear the dread in Sam's voice, the fear that they may have to go back there with lighter fluid. He shifted uneasily. "She's better than you right now." He sat up, fluffed his pillow, turned it over and lay back down, pulling the covers up over his ears. He was cold, his head was killing him, and Sam was loud. "Go to sleep, Sam."

He heard his brother's bed rock slightly against the floor as he turned over. He was facing away from Dean now, watching the curtains wobble in the breeze.

Dean's eyes were burning; he blinked to try and clear them. There were stars creeping in the edge of his vision. He shook his head to clear it. Big mistake. Panting slightly, he focussed on Sam's back. His brother's shoulders were hunched tight, and he had the covers wrapped tightly around him, as though he needed something to hold him together.

Dean blinked away the image of him standing in front of another lit pyre. With any luck he could save Sam from having to watch Madison burn. God he was tired.

"Does it hurt?" Sam's voice startled him; he'd been silent for a while and Dean had hoped he was drifting off.

He opened his eyes wide, raising his eyebrows in question, which was pointless because it was too dark for Sam to see it. He rubbed at his brow, yawning. "Getting shot? Hurts like hell." His mind caught up with what he'd said as he heard Sam take a wavering breath and huddle down in the bed.

He was trying to figure out some way to take it back when Sam spoke again, Dean could hear a touch of desperation in his voice. "It's too quiet."

Dean groaned in the base of his throat; quiet was not the word that came to mind. "What, do you want me to sing you to sleep like I used to?"

Sam ran his hand through his hair, turning his head slightly towards his brother. "You never."

Dean allowed himself a small smile. That got his interest. "And I won't again, so shut up."

Sam subsided; Dean heard the clock strike three thirty. He could hear the hum of the electrics over by the TV, which was on standby, the flap of the curtains, the creak of his brother's bed. It was bugging him.

He sneaked a glance at Sam and saw he was curled up now, face nearly buried by the covers. "You cold?"

Sam's hand played with the edges of his quilt, feeling at the pattern. Dean heard him shake his head. He lay back and closed his eyes; he could shake this headache if he could just get some sleep.

"What did you sing?"

He resisted the urge to bang his head into the pillow; he doubted it would have helped. He held back a yawn. "If I tell you will you go to sleep?"

He could feel Sam's interest take a sharp knock. His brother sat up slightly, plumping the pillows and adjusting his position before repeating the same motions. He turned over to face his Dean, but his eyes were firmly shut.

There was only one thing to do; Dean just hoped he could live it down in the morning. "Frere Sammy." He hid an embarrassed smile into his pillow as he saw the shadows of Sam's lips actually twitch.

"In French?"

Dean reached out with one hand and threw his spare pillow at Sam, catching him in the face. "Shut up and sleep." He could hear a faint sound of desperation creeping into his own voice. Sam gave a tiny huff of laughter, pulling the pillow against his body and burying his face in it.

Dean rolled over onto his stomach, sinking his head deep into his one remaining pillow. The small bit of light that was creeping in from the window was hurting his eyes. His nose was getting crushed by the weight of his head, and he was having to lean slightly on his forehead so that he had enough room to breathe, but Dean was wiped out, and starting to drift off when Sam broke the silence once more.

"You ever feel like all we do is lose people?" He gave a sour laugh, which had Dean's hackles rising.

"What do you mean?" His voice sounded thick with sleep, and he cleared it a few times hoping to wake himself up a bit; he wished he hadn't.

"Mom, Jess, Pastor Jim, Caleb. Madison." Sam paused. "Dad?"

Dean tensed; that last one was still too raw a loss for him. They'd avoided the subject for so long. They were nowhere near ready to talk about him. He could still taste the reek of burned flesh and smoke from the pyre. It wasn't fair; he should have been buried alongside Mom. His focus snapped back in place as Sam prodded him for an answer. "Dean?"

"Sometimes, alright Sammy, is that what you want to hear?" Dean was tired and he'd had enough of this shit, and his voice came out sharp. It was time to sleep - well it was nearly time to wake up, but who's counting - "We've still got," Dean waved his hand in the air, not wanting to say it, "Us. We're okay, you know?" He looked away, staring at the shadows dancing on the wall as the curtains flickered out. "We're okay."

Dean could hear Sam shuffling around. He raised one eye open and squinted over at him. It was getting lighter and he could see Sam wrapped around the pillow, hugging it, face hidden. "For how long, though?" his voice was muffled slightly.

"Until the end, Sam. Together." Dean's tone was final, and it shut Sam up. He turned over again to face the mildewed bathroom door. Joy of joys. He shut his eyes, listening to his brother's breaths, shaking into the pillow. "Goodnight, Sam."

--

Dean woke up with a jerk; the room was brighter now, the sun framed the curtains. He heard the door to the motel room swing shut, and he could smell coffee.

"Sam? What time is it?" His voice was throaty, and he struggled to clear it. Had he fallen asleep finally?

Sam had to swallow a mouthful before he could reply. "Sixish."

Dean opened one eye, waiting for the headache to come crushing down on him. It wasn't as bad, he mainly felt tired now. "You get any sleep?" He was yawning as he asked.

Sam shrugged. "More than I thought I would."

That didn't mean anything with Sam. Dean yawned again. "What're you doing?" Sam was sitting in the chair at the laptop. He was leaning his head against one hand. He still looked pale, and someone had taken charcoal to his eyes. His hands were steady around the coffee cup though. It was an improvement.

He took a sip of the coffee as Dean watched. "Finding a new gig."

Dean groaned, slumping back on the bed and pulling the quilt over his head to block out the light and the sounds of his brother tapping away on his keyboard. He clenched his fingers through his hair before pulling the cover back down.

"Sam, are you sure…" He tailed off as he was fixed by Sam's determined expression. "For the record I think this is a _really_ bad idea." He shut his eyes; his headache was returning with a vengeance. "You're so not ready."

Dean's eyes jerked open as he heard the rattle of Sam putting a bottle of pills and a glass of water by his bed. "I just need…I need to be doing something. Sorry."

Dean watched the pills and Sam before reaching out and swallowing a couple." For what?" Even his voice was starting to hurt.

Sam didn't answer other than to smile faintly. He briefly squeezed his brother's ankle as he headed back towards the chair. Dean watched him halfway before rolling over, closing his eyes and sighing. He was never going to get some sleep.

He felt something hit his head and pulled back to see Sam's pillow.

His brother smiled at him, head tilted, before turning back to the screen. "Get some sleep."

* * *

**A/N:** I wasn't planning on continuing, happy with how I ended the last chapter, but thanks to some subtle, persuasive and persistent poking I was encouraged to add a small coda. Well, I got a little carried away and it became a massive coda (longer than all three previous chapters put together!) I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks to all readers and reviewers especially. You make me squeal happily, which scares my cat, which makes me laugh, which gives me ideas.

I have something I just need to get out of my system: AHBL pt 1. OMG!

Okay, back to writing!

Cathy.


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